Control Freak
by White Angel Chan
Summary: Journey into the desperate, not quite stable mind of Ryou as he tries to gain some control over his life...and finds it from a most unexpected source. (One-shot contest entry)


Ah! Good ole' first person Ryou angst. Gotta love it. Journey into the desperate, not quite stable mind of Ryou as he tries to gain some control over his life...and finds it from a most unexpected source.  
  
Entered in Chibizoo's fanfiction contest. Remember, the deadline is July 1st!  
  
"Control Freak"  
  
Ryou ~  
  
It's amazing how someone who never has a moment to himself can feel so alone. But alas, that is the story of my life. I suppose I bring it on myself. I don't stand out or make any effort to get close to others. I used to, but not anymore. Now I just hover in the background. I'm there, but nobody seems to notice. It seems like it's better that way. Safer. It's true what they say. "You always hurt the ones you love." I am practically the poster-boy for that saying. But loneliness is a weak emotion. That's what I'm told, at least.  
  
Sure, there are some people who call themselves my friends. Yugi and his little gang mostly. They talk to me on occasion. They've shown me some kindness here and there. Tried to help me recover after some rough times. They acted like they accepted me, even liked me. I guess it would be selfish of me to expect anything more of them.  
  
I get the feeling they don't really want me around, though. They're afraid of me. They don't admit it, but I know it's true. I can't really blame them. Every time I submit to the evil that shares my body, every time I put the Ring back on even though I know what will happen, every time I smile and act as if everything's okay, I realize it... I scare me, too.  
  
The other me may be crazy, but I am no picture of sanity myself. I isolate myself from the rest of the world whenever possible. I write letters to dead people. I can't understand why I do the things I do, even against my better judgment. I find myself crying in the middle of the night, not knowing why. They ought to lock me in a padded room right now.  
  
But they won't try to lock me up anytime soon. Not and live to tell the tale, at least. The other me still has plans. He needs me strategically positioned.  
  
I'm so tired of being a tool.  
  
But the morning of the day when things started to change was not so unlike any other. I went to school, taking the same route as always. I stared at the overcast sky as I walked. I wanted it to rain, to just pour down on me. Rain would fit my mood well. Across the street just ahead of me, I could see Yugi's gang leaving the Turtle Game Shop. I slowed down, not wanting them to see me. They looked happy; I didn't want to bring them down. I didn't want to burden them with my problems. They continued on, without taking notice.  
  
I arrived at school just as the bell rang and the day continued with its usual slow dullness. It was depressing that I had to spend my few moments of peace and safety cooped up in that prison. As much as I hated it, I didn't want it to end. I didn't want to go home after. Home was much worse.  
  
But the day did end eventually. I bypassed Yugi's group and left right as the final bell rang. He was eager to get home. If I didn't hurry, he might come out right there, and then what would I do?  
  
I climbed the stairs to my apartment and fumbled with my keys as fast as I could. I finally got the door open and the nightmare could begin again.  
  
I awoke several hours later in my dark apartment with only vague ideas as to what my other half did, none of which were clear enough to piece together exactly what happened. And it wasn't like I was going to be getting any answers from him. He was asleep. Not that he would tell me anyway.  
  
I seriously considered calling an asylum and committing myself then. Maybe if they kept me drugged then he could be kept under control. At least I would be sure that I wasn't hurting anybody. But no, that wouldn't work. Eventually, he would get out, probably killing a dozen people in the process. No, it was better not to tempt fate. Better to suffer alone.  
  
My neck and shoulders were tense with the want to cry but the tears just weren't there. I was so frustrated with myself. I didn't even have control over my own body. I seemed to have no purpose other than as a vessel for someone who had been dead for centuries. It wasn't fair.  
  
I then made the most desperate move of my young life. I stood and went to the kitchen. I opened the utensil drawer and fished around, finally pulling out a knife. I was determined to prove that I had at least this much control.  
  
I pulled my sleeves up and leaned over the sink, pressing the blade to my wrist. But the more pressure I put, the weaker my knees seemed to become. I wasn't going to be able to do this standing up.  
  
Quickly, I switched on the kitchen light and sat at the table. Yes, this was better. I put my arm on the flat surface and them placed the knife on my arm and closed my eyes as I applied pressure. It didn't hurt yet. I probably couldn't do much by just pressing hard. I had to actually cut. Quickly (for I feared I would back out if I did it slowly) I raked the blade downward.  
  
The pain was instantaneous. I dropped the knife and gripped the wound in reaction. My eyes shut tighter and I grit my teeth. That must had done it. The blood must already be dripping down. I wondered how long it would take before it was all over. Hesitantly, I opened one eye and slowly revealed the wound...  
  
It was nothing but a scratch. All that, and this was something that I wouldn't have even wasted a Band-Aid on. Only tiny droplets of blood formed at irregular locations along the thin red line. I truly was pathetic. I couldn't even commit suicide right.  
  
It must be the knife, I thought. I wasn't sharp enough. I had to find something better. I stood and went searching for a substitute. I was slightly amazed at this point that I hadn't backed out after the first failure. It was like that one brief moment of pain was fueling me. I wanted more.  
  
I rummaged through a junk drawer and found something that would work well. A box-cutter. The blade was sharp would make a smoother cut than that serrated knife. I quickly headed back to the kitchen. I decided to try a different method this time. I closed my eyes and instead of putting the blade against my skin and gradually adding pressure, I blindly slashed.  
  
I could feel the difference immediately. The pain was sharper and stung more. I knew there was another problem though and opening my eyes confirmed it. Although the cut was deeper this time, I had missed my target. I had cut several inches away from my wrist, around the middle of my forearm. That's what I get for doing it with my eyes closed. I was so weak.  
  
But surprisingly, I didn't feel bad. There was a thrill in what I had done, even if I had failed. There was a certain...satisfaction in the pain. And it seemed to increase the more I stared at the new wound.  
  
This cut still hadn't been that deep, but the pain was much more than the first one. And somehow, that was a good thing. It was bleeding more, too. I could actually see the blood droplets growing along the cut and slowly begin to trickle down. It wasn't a lot, but it made me feel that I had accomplished something at least. I had exercised some control, and nobody could take it away from me.  
  
It's amazing how addicting that first ounce of control can be. Before the wound had even stopped bleeding, I found myself tracing the cut with the box-cutter again. And again. Slower, more carefully, all thoughts of actual suicide gone from my mind. The pain was enough to make me flinch, but I liked it. It made me feel stronger. Soon the wound had widened substantially. The blood pooled into the cut, filling it like a little river before overflowing its banks and dripping down. Then I mopped it up with a handy clean towel and passed the box-cutter again. The wound became deeper, wider, and longer with each pass.  
  
The whole ordeal lasted about forty-five minutes. When I finally stopped the cut was about two inches long. Not really that bad. I hadn't lost that much blood. I knew I should probably have stitches, though. But I didn't want to get them. For one, what if the doctors could tell that it was self- inflicted? There would be a big deal, they would get the school involved, and basically make my life a bigger Hell than it already was. I didn't need that. No, I could handle this on my own. I was in control.  
  
I dug the first-aid kit out and set to work. If I didn't want to go to a doctor, I had to be sure that this didn't get infected. I rinsed the wound with water first, and then cleaned it with peroxide and medicated wipes. It had stopped bleeding now, and for some reason, this was disappointing. I tapped it, wincing slightly. I stretched and squeezed the skin around it until it was bleeding again, though not as much as it had been earlier. But I was satisfied with it again.  
  
I pulled some gauze pads out of the first-aid box and watched in fascination as they absorbed the blood when I covered the wound with them. The crimson stain spread slowly across the gauze. I smiled.  
  
I finished bandaging it up, the blood stained gauze still somewhat visible under the layers of wrap. And I was happy. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, I was happy. I felt empowered. I still had some control over my body. The pain made me feel in touch with the physical world. I no longer felt like a prisoner in my own body. Who knew pain could feel so good?  
  
This was not a one-time occurrence. Pain is an odd thing. I believe they say that pain releases a chemical in your brain that some people find to be very addicting. I've even heard this one rumor that for some people, pain can create the same exhilaration as... um, intercourse. As for the truth behind this, I can't very well say, but for me at least it was an addiction that bordered on obsession.  
  
The pain from the first incident was enough to keep me satisfied for a while. It hurt long after the initial cut. Anytime I felt the need for pain, I could just touch that spot, and it would be a quick fix.  
  
But eventually, it healed, leaving a rather nasty scar behind because it had not had the stitches it should have. The need for more pain arose, and I had to answer it. So I pulled the box-cutter out again.  
  
And thus began the cycle of self-destruction. Sharp objects and long sleeves became my way of life. As one cut healed, another appeared, deeper and longer than the last. I experimented in different locations and made a science out of it. If it was pain that I wanted most, I would cut in more sensitive areas, such as on the bottom of my forearms, my legs, and even once on my chest. If I wanted blood, I would cut in less sensitive areas, the shoulders and backs of my forearms, for I could cut deeper there before I felt the need to stop, thus there was more blood.  
  
My newfound confidence helped my social life, as well. I no longer felt it was as risky to associate with others. I could have fun on occasion, and I was complimented on the way I was less uptight. I told no one of what I was doing though. If I did, they might try to stop me. I didn't want that.  
  
Suicide was never on my mind anymore. I cut for the pain and the blood and the satisfaction that they created together, not for death. I made it a point to stay away from risky areas like the wrists and the tops of my hands and feet where the large veins were close to the surface. I didn't want to die anymore. This newfound control gave me more reason to live. It gave me hope, as strange as that may sound. Hope that maybe someday, I would have complete control again.  
  
It also helped me forget about my misery. There are three types of pain: physical, mental, and spiritual. I've experienced them all, and I can safely say that physical pain is the easiest to deal with. And physical pain serves as a distraction. When I inflicted pain on myself, I wasn't thinking about my dead-end life, my lack of purpose, or the people that had been hurt by the other me (which was indirectly my fault). There was just the pain, and I could find peace in that.  
  
The other me surely noticed at one point or another what I was doing. But he did nothing about it. He neither scolded nor threatened me. He just seemed to ignore it. Nothing seemed to change. He took over the way he normally did. But I was able to get through it better because I knew he couldn't take that one thing from me. That satisfaction. The knowledge that I hadn't lost complete control.  
  
And as I lay down to sleep that night, I was content. I hadn't lost the battle yet. For as long as I still have that one thing that is my own, he doesn't own me...  
  
.................................  
  
I suddenly found myself in dark surroundings. I had been sleeping, I was sure of that. Was this a dream?  
  
"Not quite."  
  
I turned sharply and saw him. It was a rare occasion where he was visible to me, but it was a horrible torture. His appearance was so like mine, but twisted in his evil. His body appeared more sinewy. His eyes were narrowed in an expression of demented pleasure. He was a terrible sight for me.  
  
"I have taken your sleeping mind to the Shadow Realm where we can talk face to face," he said, eyeing me like a vulture. This must be it, I thought. He's going to threaten me. He's going to try to take away my one bit of control. Well, I wasn't going to have it.  
  
"I'm not going to stop," I said boldly. "You can't make me. I'm going to keep doing it, and you can't stop me." I prepared for the violence that was sure to be a result of my bravery, but it didn't come.  
  
"On the contrary, my landlord, I like what you've been doing." He looked at me approvingly. My jaw dropped.  
  
"You...you like it?" I asked, dumbfounded.  
  
"That's what I just said. Don't repeat me, host. It'll ruin the moment."  
  
I wondered what he meant by that, but I didn't have much time for rational thought. He had begun to advance on me, an imposing look in his eyes.  
  
"I can still recall when I first learned that strength can be derived from pain. It was one of the defining discoveries of my life," he mused. "I'm so glad that you have finally learned it from me."  
  
I stuttered incoherently for a moment, unable to think of a way to address that statement without repeating him. "What do you mean?" I asked finally.  
  
He laughed out loud. "You didn't think this was all your own idea did you? I have been conditioning you for this from the start, my light. Remember the Monster World game. I impaled our hand upon that spike. I had more on my mind than simply punishing you for interfering. The same was true for Battle City when I stabbed our arm. But despite all those opportunities to learn from the pain, you cowered from it like a child. But finally you get it."  
  
"Wh-why?" I stuttered. I couldn't understand. Why would it matter to him?  
  
He was upon me now. I had nowhere to go. Like lightning, he reached out and grabbed me by the wrist. I flinched, expecting a blow.  
  
"Now what good would it do to hit you?" he asked with a mocking laugh. "Pain only makes you stronger, right?" He grinned and looked at me like a hungry tiger looks at a deer. "Well, perhaps you have not progressed that far yet. You only like it when you have control over the pain. But in time..." He stretched out my arm and examined it, running his hands over the old marks. "With each scar, you become more like me. In time, no one will be able to tell the difference between us. It won't matter who's in control, because we will be the same."  
  
He grinned devilishly and I felt my blood run cold. No...I didn't want that. I didn't want to be like him. Freedom at that cost wasn't worth it. Not if I lost myself in the process. I said nothing out loud. I only shook my head.  
  
"You don't want to be like me?" my dark half taunted. "I'm afraid it's too late for that." He found the fresh cut on my lower forearm and undid the bandage, letting it fall. He then proceeded to dig his nails into it.  
  
I shrieked. There was no satisfaction in this. I had no control. He eyed my now bleeding wound and then looked at me again. "Our blood is the same. WE are the same. Look." He held up his own arm. Blood trickled down it from an injury identical to my own. The same scars that covered my arm covered his. I felt the tears start to run down my face.  
  
"No...I don't want this," I cried.  
  
"It's too late," he grinned. "Too late..." He pulled my arm closer to him and leaned over it. He then ran his tongue over the wound and as he did, I could feel the metallic taste of the blood in my own mouth, as if it were me savoring it instead of him. It was horrible. I tried to pull my arm away but he was too strong. And in that frustration, I screamed... for it was all that I could do.  
  
...................................  
  
I sat up screaming in bed. I was drenched in sweat and out of breath. It had been a dream. No, no, it was much more than that. It had been real, and the proof lay in the open and bleeding cut on my arm.  
  
Right then, I stood up and rushed to the first-aid kit. But I was not going there to bandage the wound once more. I was going for the box-cutter that I kept there. I snatched the cursed blade and made for the nearest window and flung it out upon the street where I heard it clatter below. I was not going to be playing into his hands anymore. I refused.  
  
I went back to my bed, tears coming again. I was so angry, mostly with myself. But the loss was great. Now what could I do. Pain now brought me nothing but just that, pain. He had succeeded in taking away my last freedom, all I had left, the last thing that was my own. There was no satisfaction, no contentment, no control, no hope. I had nothing again...  
  
....................................  
  
Yami Bakura ~  
  
My host thought he was so clever. Thought he could win the battle against me. How wrong he was. He has no freedom left, I've seen to that. He is completely under my influence, even if he doesn't realize it. One little talk and he's back to the pathetic quivering mass he was before. He's a sorry host and I'm embarrassed to have claim over him.  
  
But I suppose there are some perks to having him. He's naïve, and that is convenient to me. He doesn't even seem to understand the idea behind reverse psychology...  
  
Of course I didn't want him practicing masochism. That's my area. The last thing I need is for him to screw up and accidentally cut too deep. That would be the end of both of us. Plus, that bout of confidence that he was getting from it was grating on my nerves. He needed to be put in his place. He's much easier to handle when his hopes are shattered.  
  
And he's so easy to see through, it's pitiful. I knew that if I tried to force him to stop, I would have to be in control of him all day, or he would reach for the blade every time he was free. I don't have time for that. I couldn't hurt him physically to make him stop either, because he would always have that one ray of hope. That one surviving idea that he had some control over his life, even if the only thing he had control over was pain. It made him feel that he had something, at least. But, by comparing him to the one thing he was most afraid of becoming, namely me, I could make him stop and break his will all in one shot. He was doing what I wanted him to without even realizing. That shows just how much "control" he has.  
  
Perhaps this will make him finally get it through his head that he can't fight me. I am the master. I am in control. And I am so good at what I do...  
  
...............................  
  
No happy endings this time. Happy endings are over-rated. This was a one- shot, so no, it won't be continued. But that doesn't mean you can't R&R! *eyes readers hopefully* 


End file.
